Confessions of an Erudite
by ObservationofTrifles
Summary: I do not like empty rhetoric, nor do I like repeating myself and wasting oxygen. And yet, for all of this disdain of mine towards linguistic expression of things to me incomprehensible (for my love lies in facts, properly defined without excess sentiment, and in numbers), I have a few words to which I lent my own meanings, making them worth using. They are as follows. One-shot.


**This just was an idea that was nagging me all day long today, so I wanted to get it out. It's Sherlock's point of view, first person, and is pretty much summarised above. **

**Insert Disclaimer. Have fun reading! **

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Words are, for all of their convenience, just as restrictive as they are enlightening. They allow for us to express our sentiments, and yet they do not allow us to express their depth. No words in the world exist for the feelings that actually matter- words are like the human body. They are the transport of thought just as a body is the transport of the mind- true emotion makes one speechless, real pain causes one's body to break.

I do not like empty rhetoric, nor do I like repeating myself, hence wasting oxygen. And yet, for all of this disdain of mine towards linguistic expression of things to me incomprehensible (for my love lies in facts, properly defined without excess sentiment, and in numbers), I have a few words to which I have lent my own meanings, making them worth using.

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_Blue_

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Well, for accuracy's sake, it's Turkish blue that I most like. For me, blue is the colour of the waves caressing the sand with hypnotising quality of a metronome moving back and forth. Blue is the colour of the sky at which people never look often enough. Though I may not be intimately aware of the structure of the solar system, it does not mean that I cannot appreciate the stars shining like holes on a deep blue tapestry of old. Blue is the colour of my scarf. Now Turkish blue, that is the colour of something that may not undulate, and yet is hypnotising, of something terrestrial, and yet not lacking in celestial wonder; it is the colour of something as close to me as my scarf.

Blue is the colour of my blogger's eyes.

* * *

_Pulse_

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It beats through all of us, and yet we never notice it. The first time I ever paid attention to the beating of my heart was when I woke up in a hospital. Mycroft came soon after my awakening, and then left. My parents came, but I made them leave. And then I was alone in the room with the sound of a heart monitor reverberating with every beep, the silence deafening and the noise reminding me that I was still alive. It was after a particularly unfortunate incident, one of the first big cases I took, I was still very young.

The doctor came in soon after, flawless white robe and equally snowy hair, and told me that my heart had stopped twice while I was in surgery.

I came to appreciate the beeping noise a little more after a couple of such visits.

Life is just like a pulse on a heart monitor, a series of ups and downs that always, no matter what, ends in a flat line.

I am determined to define my pulse, its speed and intensity, and not let it be so terribly steady as it so often is, no matter what that entails. Luckily, the doctor I have now is the same way.

* * *

_Ache_

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Because this word carries the feel of gnawing pain well. The worst is when I am coming down from a high, be it physically or artificially induced; when everything sets back into its horrible mundane existence and my mind starts aching again. My core feels deep and hollow and I roll up into the foetal position because that is all I can do to quell the emptiness; my joints all weep and my fingers feel restless, and my minds just hurts so much.

John took them all away. Cigarettes don't count.

When I have a bad night and I need them, he helps. It doesn't always work, and sometimes I don't come back for a long time until it all wears off, and he stays silent when our door opens and I come in. Sometimes it does work, and I wake up on the couch with the headache still there, paracetamol on the table (strictly two pills) and my phone laid out in the hopes of a call from Lestrade.

And the ache is always there, but he tries to dull it. Due to this, for me, aching has become synonymous with friendship.

* * *

_Tea_

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This is Mrs. Hudson's panacea. I sit with her sometimes and the smell of my Earl Grey and her peppermint fills the small, narrow kitchen. She jabbers away, thinking that I don't listen. Most of the time, I don't, but some days, when the tea is particularly strong or when a case was particularly challenging, I enjoy listening to her voice. The cup is hot in my hands and occasionally, the pitter patter of the rain against the window makes me feel even more at home as I drink the tea, careful not to spread my legs out too far under the table and kick my landlady (not housekeeper).

She just keeps smiling and hands me biscuits.

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_Friend_

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I cannot appreciate the beauty of wonderful things, nor can I appreciate the elegance of the grace of nature, and I am not a good person. I can see the worth in others, seeing the lack of it in myself, and I know that the best person that I have met is the one who, paradoxically, considers me the best man he has ever known. I am the mind in our strangely symbiotic friendship, while he is the heart, beating life throughout it.

I know that without him, I would no longer be able to continue being the same as I was before. This person, my friend, changed me; I have become disgustingly optimistic in his wake, and I try, for his sake, to not be so sharp with others. Even Anderson stumbles upon my mercy sometimes.

And thus John came into my life and made me better. I have not changed in the least, I'm still an idiot for whom sentiment is a foreign and unpleasant notion, and yet there are now in my life people for whom laying down my life is not just a noble obligation from a romanticised blog entry, but an honour.

* * *

These are the words that are my life, each in their own way. Friendship, pain, comfort, familiarity, adventure, gratefulness; all of these are expressed by each of the words above in my mind.

Though sentiment may be to me something with which I am not familiar, nor do I want to be, it is yet an integral part of each of these definitions because it is the emotional response that these words yield that matters, the association conjured up by combinations of letters in my mind. They are like the skeleton, these words, of a larger idea that is expressed through feelings and not logic.

* * *

There is one more word which I seem to have forgotten that is of the utmost relevance: solitude. For that is when I think and feel and know, and it is my permanent state of being. My mind is a barrier and an insulator from the rest of the world, and the few people who can see past it go on with their own existence, unable to bear being constantly tied to mine.

_Solitude._

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**I hope you enjoyed this story! A review would be absolutely delightful, any criticism is greatly appreciated. **

**Until next time. **


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